


The One With The Shingles

by SimplyShipping



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Humor, No angst here, Shingles, academy au, before all the PAIN AND SUFFERING, so don't you fret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyShipping/pseuds/SimplyShipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based off of the F.R.I.E.N.D.S episode "The One With The Chicken Pox", Jemma gets shingles and, embarrassed, locks herself in her apartment. Fitz bugs her until she lets him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Bug Me, I'm Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Academy AU fluff
> 
> "The One With The Chicken Pox" is one of my favorite episodes for some reason, and I loved the concept of one or both of Fitzsimmons getting pox/shingles in this case and keeping each other company in their shared state of misery. So I hope you enjoy the crap I came up with. 
> 
> There will be a few chapters, though I'm not sure how many. I'll try to update as often as possible, but I'm on vacation this week so it won't be swift.

_It’s disgusting_. That’s the only way she knows how to describe it. You’d think she could come up with a better word, considering her extensive vocabulary, but “repugnant” is too strong and “gross” is much too subtle. Perhaps “disturbing” or “repulsive” but neither of those seem to fit either. So _disgusting_. That’s the best word for it, really. The little patches of pus-filled blisters scattered all over her body started to show up the previous night, and she hoped and prayed that it wasn’t what she thought it was.

She could have sworn she’d had chickenpox as a child, but looking back, maybe they were an allergic reaction or something. However, her dad had called it chicken pox, her mum had said the same. Certainly it was too severe to just be allergies. Plus, she’s a relatively healthy individual, and she doesn’t have many allergies aside from the common pollen allergy when the season approaches. 

So maybe it’s shingles. Lord, she hopes it isn’t shingles. But it looks and feels exactly as she knows it should. All the symptoms match up. The appearance is similar if not identical to what she’d seen in textbooks as a girl. 

And oh, here it is again. A nearly constant urge, that she can’t get rid of. She sets her freshly clipped nails over the red patch of blisters and spots on her left forearm, and takes a deep breath. _Don’t you dare_. She moves her hand until she’s just about to relieve herself of the pain, but instead she flattens her hand and slaps at the sting on the surface, hoping maybe that would help. She slaps it again. The itch is ever growing, and she slaps and slaps until it has at least faded to a tickle. Then she shakes her head, and runs a hand through her hair. _You can’t scratch it. You know it’s no good._

There are medications to treat the disease. There are a few simple home remedies even to help reduce the pain and the itching, which she prefers to modern medicine regardless of how helpful and easy it can be at times. It’s undoubtedly necessary in many situations, but certainly she can cure, or at least dim the pain of the shingles at home without much more than honey and oatmeal. 

Of course, she can get the medications she needs. Her greatest qualm is the prospect of leaving her room. She wishes she could say that vanity has never been a battle for her. She rather likes to feel pretty and hopes other people view her as such. She values her little outfits and simple makeup, not much more than eyeliner and pink lips, but not much less than mascara and concealer. Fitz will occasionally slip her a compliment, mostly because he knows she likes to be complemented. While she tries to be humble, she can’t deny that she’s proud of her appearance, to say the least. 

She slips off of her bed and goes to the mirror. She looks like she took a bath in margarine and mud the night before and her face is bearing the consequences. She can count at least twelve visible blemishes forming a line like ants down the side of her cheek, reaching to her jaw. At the distance from which she stands, they look like pimples, but as she leans in closer to observe them in full, she identifies them as multiple tiny sacks filled with liquid, a mixture of pus and water. Come to think of it, that really isn’t much different than a pimple. But no matter, they are not pimples. They are far worse. And they itch and itch and itch until she finds herself slapping her cheek to trade one sort of suffering for another. 

She feels ridiculous, all this slapping. She’d tried to imagine the blisters as bugs that she was trying to kill, but that didn’t make her feel any less ridiculous. She reaches behind her and slides a hand beneath her shirt grazing another patch of the bloody bubbles of death right beneath her bra clasp. 

“Bugger.” she spits, still staring in the mirror at the patch on her face. She drops her arms at her side and slouches in disgruntlement, and with a sigh, makes her way back to sit on the edge of her bed. She plops down on her back, wincing. Maybe if she had more sense she’d have known the patch on her back may be affected by the action.

There is a knock at the door.

“Simmons! I just made something you have to see! I combined two of my previous designs to come up with it, and it’s brilliant. Honestly, I surprise myself more every day.” Fitz’s yells are muffled by the door. 

She grunts. It’s very rare that she isn’t in the mood or lacks the desire to see her best friend. His usual wit and scottish charm is generally the first thing she needs to add a little joy to her day. Even in all his grumpiness, she finds him entertaining. But when she hears his voice, for some odd reason, she wants to hide in her closet and pray he concludes that she isn’t there.

With one gust, she blows a piece of hair from her face. 

“Fitz, I can’t come to the door right now.” She says. She’s greeted with silence. She’s probably caused him shock, having never actually said anything like that before. Usually, she’s rushed to get the door at the sound of the knock, and has opened it before he’s even started talking. Sometimes she’s even texted him ahead of time so he doesn’t even need to knock before entering. 

“Oh... um…” More silence. “Can I ask why not?” He says, half shouting. 

“Of course.” She tries to come up with a quick lie, although he might as well know. “I’m um.. I’m naked.” Instantly, she feels all the heat in her body rush to her cheeks. She could have come up with something else, but it seemed like the obvious excuse. However, the thought of being undressed with Fitz right outside her door caused an unexpected, unwelcome reaction. She couldn’t see him, but Fitz was blushing as well. 

“Course! Course. Uh take your time then to get dressed.” He says, tripping over some of the words.

She realizes that was a dumb excuse. She needed him to go away in general, but of course if she’s naked she can simply throw on an outfit and let him inside.

“No! Fitz-- ugh.” She slaps a hand to her forehead, now noticing another patch on the back of her wrist. _It’s everywhere._

“No?” Fitz was blushing much harder now. “You’re.. I’m sorry?”

“I’m not-- I’m not naked. I made that up.” She rolls her eyes. The flustered tone of his voice made her want to chuckle, but as soon as her wrist started to itch, she was back to slapping herself silly. 

“Jemma?” His voice was much softer. He was almost saying her name to himself. “I can’t say I understand what’s going on. Why does it sound like you’re being attacked?” Suddenly he hits the door with full force, causing Jemma to jolt up. “Are you being attacked, Jemma?!”

“No! I-” Reluctantly, she rolls off the bed and walks to the door, glancing through the peephole to see a magnified nervous looking Fitz with both of his hands still glued to the places he’d slammed on the door. “First of all, do you really think I would answer that question if I was in fact being attacked?”

“Oh you’ve come closer. That’s good. I can hear you much better now.” he says at a normal volume, ignoring her question. 

“Second…” She thinks of what to say. She mostly doesn’t want to open the door because he’d notice the line of blisters on her face, and he might make a comment or a joke to worsen her already terrible insecurity. Her concern for him is a good angle, might as well take that one. “Fitz, did you ever get chicken pox as a child?” 

“Actually, no. I never got em. There were other children at school that got em when I was a boy, and mum told me it’d be better if I got em at that age, but I never did. Which is dangerous cause--”

“Getting pox as an adult is dreadful, if not fatal, so I think it’s probably best that you don’t come in here.” She places one hand on the door, and the other rests on her hip. That was exactly the answer she was looking for. Maybe he’d leave.

“You have pox?” Or maybe he wouldn’t.

“Well I um,” _No. Shingles. Different, but similar. Not as deadly for an adult._ “Yes?” She says, her voice obviously raising in question at the end of the word. 

“You never had pox as a child either? Just when I thought we couldn’t possibly have any more in common.” he chuckles, and then immediately catches himself. “You need a doctor though. A-and you shouldn’t be standing. Gracious, woman, you’ll find your death at your own hands if you don’t take better care of yourself.” _He’s_ one to talk, what with his diet of ‘junk food or no food’.

Typically, she enjoys talking to him. Even hearing him ramble on about nonsense and monkeys, but her itching was making her irritable and she found herself rocking back and forth on her toes, aching for him to leave her alone. 

“No, Fitz. I lied again. It’s not chicken pox, it’s shingles.” she says, scratching her nose, and slapping at her cheek. “Similar, but different. And quite treatable from home. I can get the proper medication on my own, thank you. But I’d advise you to stay away. It’s only contagious to people who’ve never had pox.” And even then, not horribly contagious. 

“Oh I don’t mind--” he starts.

“Fitz, for your own safety I beg of you to please stay away.” The words come out harsher than she’d intended, but she’s hoping she at least got the point across. He needs to go away if only so that he doesn’t see her with the rash and the red skin and the sweating. _Sweating_. That was a new development. 

After a moment or so of silence, Fitz politely accepts her request and heads off down the hall, away from her apartment. 

She savors the peace, quiet, and missed embarrassment, and heads back to bed, now feeling more dizzy than she had before.

_____________________________

Fitz sits on his couch, bored out of his mind. He’d never been denied entrance by Jemma before, and he didn’t like it. She kept him occupied, kept him company. Otherwise he’d simply sit on his couch, bored out of his mind, as he is now. He wouldn’t have minded it if he had to contract a disease in place of this brutal boredom, but she sent him off nonetheless. The light on his laptop charger keeps blinking white, and he can’t help opening it up for lack of anything better to do. He stares at the schematics for the design he’d intended to show Jemma. 

He’d always thought of different ways he could improve on things. Something he could add for the aesthetic, some way he can strengthen the firing power, something to make the weapon lighter or more comfortable to hold. Examining his newest design, he couldn’t come up with anything. But then that could be because he wasn’t trying very hard. 

He wanted to see her, speak with her, be near her. Shingles or no shingles.

It probably should bother him or give him some pause that he can’t go without her for more than a few hours a day, but only as much as it bothered him that he’d had multiple dreams in which they were married, and Jemma was pregnant with his child. Logically, it makes sense, considering the amount of time they spend together coupled with Fitz’s inability to control his hormones, and Jemma is _quite_ a beautiful woman. Of course the marriage and babies isn’t exactly what hormones and physical perfection would bring about in the average male, but he tried not to think too much about that. Besides, Fitz hasn’t got the slightest idea how to control those dreams or stop them from happening without skipping sleep altogether.

He pulls up a browser and clicks on the google search bar. Flexing his fingers, he types “home remedies for shingles”. The obvious one popped up first on the list of blue links. Oatmeal. He’s sure he knew that already, but his brain was short circuiting in nearly every way possible at the moment after being rejected and sent home by his best friend. 

Having already imagined Jemma naked once today by mistake, maybe it wouldn’t be the best idea to bring her oatmeal and encourage her to take a _bath_. But then again, shingles are a truly horrid disease of itching and soreness, and she couldn’t possibly want to go through it all by her lonesome. Really, he should just leave her be, like she’d asked, but he couldn’t stop himself. He only wanted to help her. At least that’s what he would say. 

He stands and walks to his kitchen, first to the pantry to scan its contents in search of oatmeal he may already have. _Why would you have oatmeal? You hate oatmeal._

Sure enough, poking out from underneath a box of cereal on the bottom shelf was a packet of oatmeal, unflavored, no additives. He pulls it out, and then removes the cereal box to see if there’s any more. Four more packets are sitting where they were sloppily thrown behind the box. He remembers now that Jemma brought oatmeal a while ago when she had come over for breakfast tea. _She would. Health nut._ He grabs all four and puts the box back where it was, then grabs his phone and wallet off the counter and aims for the exit. 

Just before reaching the door, he pauses and looks over at his television. On top of the DVD player, he notices three cases, doctor who seasons one through three. She’d left them behind after their unfinished marathon the day before. Maybe she’d want to finish the marathon. That’s a plan B if he ever heard of one. He runs to quickly pick them up, first checking to make sure there isn’t a dvd still in the player, and then he finally runs out the door. 

She lived within walking distance. Down the stairs two floors, turn right at the end of the hallway and her door was the first on the left. It was convenient, how close they lived to each other. Though they spent so much time at each other’s apartments they might as well be living in the same one. He certainly wouldn’t mind that. Waking up to her making breakfast in the kitchen. The effervescent smell of fresh baked scones filling the room with joy, and his lungs with longing. Her smile being the first thing to greet him when he left his room. Her eyes sparkling like stars. A freshly ironed, flour stained apron tied neatly around her waist. Her hair glistening in the morning light which peers through the window. No, he wouldn’t mind that at all. 

Perhaps he should remind his brain that she’s only his _best friend_. These outrageous, exaggerated fairy tale day dreams are getting out of control.  
He approaches her door, oatmeal and DVDs in hand and knocks.

_____________________________

 _“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here?”_ She certainly feels contained. Having read this book a hundred times already, and picking it up again only because she’d left her Doctor Who DVDs at Fitz’s apartment, and didn’t want to go and get them. 

_“My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries...”_ Her great miseries in this world were shingles. And boredom. She sighs. _“...and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part...”_

Three loud bloody knocks at the door. What the hell is it now?

“Jemma?” Fitz calls quietly. He’s obviously nervous, as he should be. 

“Ugh, Fitz!!” She drops the book in front of her and rolls onto her back, then sits up and slides off the bed to stand at her apartment entrance, still refusing to open the door. “Why on earth are you here again? I told you about my shingles. You should be running away for the sake of your health. Besides, you can’t stand sick people. They make you uncomfortable, remember? You call them snot monsters, or something?” 

“Snot zombies, Simmons. More specific. But Shingles is less of an illness, and more of a rash really.”

“That isn’t true!” She fakes a cough. “I’m very ill.”

“What was that? Did you just force choke a fly?”

“I coughed, Fitz. That’s what happens when someone gets sick.”

“The only real illness you have is terrible acting. And I don’t know if you’ll recover.” 

“Oh for goodness sakes, Fitz. Were you planning to stand outside my door and insult me until I let you inside?”

“Hardly”

“Then why are you here?”

“... I have oatmeal.”

Jemma breathes. She notices she hadn’t been. Sometimes when she converses with Fitz there’s a certain fluidity to the conversation that has her forgetting to take breaths because they practically speak on top of one another. When she remembers, the breath comes out as more of a sigh, or a grunt, or an eye roll. Often all three at once. She reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, discovering a headache that had only just surfaced upon Fitz’s arrival. Despite her desperation for him to leave and not see the dreadful disease displayed like a volcano eruption on her face, she remembers that she’d left those oatmeal packets at his apartment back when they’d had breakfast together. She didn’t have any sort of oatmeal in her kitchen to help with the pain and itching.

She slaps an itch on her arm.

“Slide them beneath the door.”

There’s a moment of pause. Jemma stares at the floor, waiting for the little paper bags of soothing relief, more often used as a healthy breakfast option. Nothing.

“I also have Doctor Who.” Oh no. “I mean I thought, since we didn’t finish our marathon… To ease the boredom of resting.” That isn’t an easy thing to deny.

What is he getting at? She loves her best friend more than anything in the world, but she values her dignity, and she wishes he would just leave, so maybe she can still save a slice of it. But then, she also values Doctor Who.

Reluctantly, Jemma reaches for the door handle and twists it slowly. She cracks it open just enough to poke her nose through and observe Fitz with one eye. 

He’s smiling at her. Not a real smile, a sort of fake, expectant smile. He knows he’s about to get his way, and she hates that he’s smiling like that. It’s the same smile he always gets when he’s done something right in an assignment or experiment, and he’s waiting for her to simply say the words. “Excellent work, Fitzy. You’ve done it again.” Words she’s never willingly or purposefully uttered in response to that damn smile. 

He’s wearing a red and white checkered button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie, a deep shade of blue, is tight around his neck and his collar is up on the right side. Jemma hyper focuses on the displaced collar, and Fitz notices her staring. Just as he begins to look down in response, she reaches out through the crack in the door and fixes his collar, brushing his chin in the process. Her hand immediately drops afterward.

“You’re a piece of work, Leo.” says Jemma, nearly cramming all her words into one.

“I’m bloody genius, that’s what I am.” Says Fitz, nudging the door open until she complies and walking past her to set the oatmeal packets and DVDs on her coffee table. 

Fitz’s new, more authentic smile could stretch all the way to his ears. It’s probably the most arrogant expression she’s ever witnessed on a person's face. Another one of his smiles that Jemma couldn’t stand the sight of. 

Though she can’t help but admit she finds it charming sometimes. The way he knows her, makes her break. She would never tell him to his face that she enjoys the heated arguments, and the arrogance in his rebuttals and the way he smirks after she realizes she has nothing left to say. It infuriates and excites her all at once. She hates it.  
But, actually. She doesn’t hate it at all.


	2. Doctor Fitz

Fitz removes the DVD from it’s case and pops it in the player, then he finds the edge of her bed and takes a seat. 

“Are you ever going to get a couch for this place?” Fitz calls out to Jemma, who quickly escaped to the bathroom as soon as he entered. He hears her scuffle around the corner, and watches her as she enters the room, tightening the tie around her baby blue bathrobe. She’s taken her hair down, and she’s watching her feet as she saunters toward him. She tucks her hair behind her ear on one side and leaves the other side covering her face, keeping her head as low as possible. 

“There’s no room!” she says, taking a seat next to him, doing her best to keep her head down.

“It’s a good sized studio, plenty of room for a couch if you wanted one, you’re just too lazy to look.” She turns her head slightly to look at him.

“Oh! I’m lazy, am I? I beg your pardon--”

“--You could easily find a--”

“-- not lazy. You’re one to talk--”

“--plenty of room considering--”

“--have you seen your apartment lately?--”

“--low of you to comment on my--”

“Fitz!! Stop!” Jemma shouts and halts the bickering altogether. Her eyes roll back and nearly fall shut, as she sways back and forth, raising an arm to her head and using the other to steady her. He catches her with one hand on her left shoulder and the other beneath her right arm.

“Woah woah. Jemma.. You okay?” His eyes are soft and kind when she meets them with her own. In spite of her fatigue, she still manages to keep her head low, but she notices the hair slipping slightly out of place. She quickly snaps her head away and pulls herself from his grasp.

“I’m fine!” she bites. “Just.. No arguing… Please. Apparently I’m much too dizzy for our usual pace.”

Fitz tries to keep himself from stroking the hair out of her face. Obviously, she wants it there for some reason and he’s not about to face her wrath. He’s seen her when she’s truly angry. She becomes almost cartoonish at the amount of blood that rushes to her ears. It would be adorable if she didn’t erupt like pompeii before you could run off and miss the unfortunate explosion of insults. He could argue with her just the same, of course, though when she got to be that way, he questioned whether he’d said something that truly offended her. Often, he’d let her rant run it’s course and then fix her a cup of apology tea. Maybe that’s just what she needs now. Tea.

“Alright, stay there.” Fitz stands to his feet and walks toward her kitchen counter. She watches him grab a tea cup from the cabinet above the stove, setting it on the counter. He fills the kettle from the stovetop with water and places it back on the stove, then he lights it and plops down beside her on the bed again.

“Fitz--”

“I’m going to take care of you. Leave it to your best friend.” He crosses his arms.

“Fitz I--”

“No no. Not a word, Simmons. I’m going to do whatever it takes to make you feel comfortable, and we’ll get you better in no time.” Jemma can’t help but smile at him. He’s undoubtedly the most genuine person she’s ever met. Kind and caring, even when she hasn’t asked. Perhaps not always considerate, but certainly an individual with pure intentions. Still, in spite of his generosity, he hasn’t seemed to pay much attention to his surroundings. There’s a hint of pity behind her smile which he doesn’t fully understand until he follows her eyes to look behind them at the cup of tea on her bedside table, steam still coming off the surface of the liquid. 

“I made it while you were away getting the oatmeal and DVDs.” Fitz looks back at her kitchen. He hadn’t noticed the kettle of tea already sitting on a pot holder beside the sink. 

“Course you would.” he says, his face falling into a sad smile. “Well we can always have more.” His face lights up at the thought, and he turns to her with a wide grin. 

“Definitely.” she says, smiling back at him and scrunching up her nose. They hold eye contact before the warmth of her smile causes Fitz’s cheeks to flush, and he looks away. She doesn’t understand his sudden shyness. He’s been like this more and more lately. His ears seem to turn a bright red whenever she’s dressed in anything less than jeans and a t shirt. Perhaps he’s only just now noticing that she isn’t a scientist with a brain in place of her face, that she does in fact have aesthetic attributes. She’s never been certain how he feels about her appearance, but his recent rosiness at the sight of her is assurance that she at least doesn’t look like some sort of hobgoblin.

She looks toward the DVDs, determined to pick up where they left off with their Doctor Who marathon. To her dismay, she’d fallen asleep halfway through “The Girl in the Fireplace”. She’d sworn she would stay awake since it was one of her favorite episodes. It could certainly hold her attention, but they’d been watching for hours, and her eyes had gotten heavy. She had curled up in Fitz’s arms without thinking, the two of them sprawled out on the bed, and placed her head on his chest. Fitz would tap on her shoulder every few minutes and tease her about closing her eyes. They had gotten about ten minutes into the episode, Fitz was smoothing his thumb over her shoulder and she’d tried not to notice the butterflies flitting about in her stomach at the touch, focusing instead on the relaxation it gave her. The peace of the moment. The Fitz shaped pillow under her head and the warmth of his arm stretched around her back. And closing her eyes a final time, she’d soon fallen asleep to the steady thud of his heartbeat. She couldn’t recall where in the episode they’d ended up.

She starts to stand, headed straight for the DVD player. Fitz immediately puts his hands on her shoulders and sits her back down.

“No no. You don’t stand. I do all the standing from here on out.” he says sternly, and follows her intended movements. “Can’t have you falling down. I wouldn’t know what to do.” He loads the DVD player. 

“Happy to know I can count on you in emergency situations.” she scoffs. 

Fitz grabs the remote and directs the DVD to “The Girl in the Fireplace”, fastforwarding to the Doctor meeting Reinette as a grown woman. 

“Oh I adore this scene. Is this really where I fell asleep?” Jemma swoons, scooting back on the bed. She slips her robe off of her shoulders, revealing a white tank top and fuzzy pink shorts that hardly reach the middle of her thigh. Then, she leans back on her pillows with one arm behind her head. Fitz ignores the urge to look twice at the sudden exposure of her shoulders and legs, and prances to the bed. He sits beside her, cross legged with his hands in his lap. 

“You snored when they snogged.” he jeers, smirking at her. 

“Clever, but I don’t snore.” she responds with a similar smirk. He shrugs at his failure to find an argument. She’s impossibly perfect when she sleeps. Still, quiet, peaceful.

On the screen, Reinette stands inappropriately close to The Doctor, her hand touching his face. They’re alone in her room, flirtatious looks tossed between them. Her hand falls from his face. She eyes him. _“Reason tells me you cannot be real”_. she says, brimming with curiosity.. _“Oh.”_ He scoffs, shaking his head. _“you never want to listen to reason.”_ The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile of admiration. He looks on at her in awe. An annoyed voice calls from out of the room. _“Mademoiselle! Your mother grows impatient.”_ Reinette looks over her shoulder. _“A moment!”_ she shouts. She looks back up at the doctor seriously. _“So many questions. So little time.”_ Her eyes fall to his lips, and then she grabs him and kisses him passionately, pushing him up against the wall. He raises his eyebrows in shock, but he responds, his hand slowly floating to her waist. 

Fitz snaps his head to look at Jemma. She feels his gaze, and meets it. 

“What?” she says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Why’d you do that?” Fitz pauses the DVD. 

“Do what?”

“ _Hm_ ” he mimics her. “You did that when they were kissing.” He looks her up and down with narrowed eyes. “It was weird.”

“Oh… Did I?” She bows her head. “Guess I didn’t realize.” She tries to hide her blush.

Fitz waits for her to properly answer his question, holding his tense glare. 

“Wha-- I--” Jemma trips over her words, trying to figure out how to explain herself. Her eyes wander. “I don’t know I--” She huffs. “It’s quite a sensual kiss.”

Fitz unlocks his jaw and wrinkles his nose in disgust, fighting the urge to slap his hand to his forehead. “For goodness sakes, Jemma!”

“W-- You asked!!” 

“I didn’t ask you to use that bloody word!”

“It was suitable for describing the kiss!”

“It’s not--”

“Didn’t I say no arguing?!” she exclaims, unfolding her arms and slapping her hands down on the bed, her body angled slightly toward him. Fitz bites his tongue, and leans back, pressing play on the remote. He keeps his brow knotted in the center of his face. He always seems to do this. He’s gets so uncomfortable if she pays the slightest bit of attention to anything even remotely sexual. 

The Doctor and Reinette have broken apart as the voice calls to her again. She runs out of the room, leaving The Doctor dumbfounded. Jemma slaps an itch on her leg. She mutters “sorry” under her breath, but keeps her focus on the television. Fitz quickly glances where she slapped at her leg, and then up at her face in confusion, not sure why she would slap herself. He shrugs it off and looks back at the screen.

A strange man enters the room with The Doctor. He’s still holding onto the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He squints, thinking. _“Poisson.”_ he ponders the name. _“Reinette Poisson!”_ he raises his voice, letting go of the wall.

Jemma slaps her arm. “Sorry.” she says, slightly louder this time, clearing her throat afterward. Fitz keeps his eyes on her for a few moments. He wants to ask questions, but he fears her anger. There’s been enough arguing, and she’s warned him against it. He really wouldn’t have any clue what to do if she were to pass out. Of course there are the obvious protocols, but he would likely stand frozen, stunned for quite a while after she’d fallen to the floor, and then possibly slip into a state of panic, and forget what any ordinary person is supposed to do in that kind of situation.

His eyes return to the screen. The Doctor is having an epiphany about Madame de Pompadour when Jemma slaps herself again on the shoulder, wincing.

Jemma groans when Fitz pauses the DVD again. “Jemma” he says, slowly turning his head toward her. “Why are you slapping yourself?” 

Jemma bites her lip. “I know it’s odd, but it’s the only way to relieve my itches without scratching at them.” 

“Why don’t you just scratch them?” 

Jemma looks almost offended, wide eyed, her mouth hanging slightly open. “And scratch myself bloody? No thank you. It’s not good to scratch yourself with pox or shingles or eczema. This is common knowledge, Fitz.” 

“Well sorry I don’t study various rash like diseases.” he says, rolling his eyes at her. “Actually,” he stands off the bed. “I’m not sorry at all.” 

Fitz walks toward her bathroom, grabbing the oatmeal packets off the coffee table on his way. 

“Fitz? What are you doing?” she calls out to him as he’s reached the bathroom. She hears the fausset squeak, and then the bath water begins to run. “Fitz?” she calls again. His head pops out of the bathroom door. 

“Water’s running.” he says, his voice elevated slightly to compensate for the volume of the bathwater. 

“I can hear that.” She squints at him. 

Fitz lifts one of the oatmeal packets up and shakes it. “Guess you should see if this actually works.”

Jemma stands and saunters toward him, taking the oatmeal packet out of his hand. She looks at it and sighs. “Anything to relieve the itching I suppose.”

She looks up at Fitz, who is nodding incessantly. “Very well then. Get out.” she says, raising her hand and waves him away. 

_____________________________

Fitz waits patiently on her bed, his legs crossed in front of him. He messes with a design on his phone, nitpicking details and thinking up small improvements he can make. About half an hour passes. It’s all too quiet. He considered leaving while she bathed, but she insisted he stay, an odd change from earlier when she’d been begging him to get out. She must have realized how comforting his companionship can be after she’d originally planned to isolate herself. It does feel awkward for him to be there while she bathes, but he’d rather wait for her to get out of the bath than leave her alone to possibly get dizzy and stumble, or maybe fall asleep in the tub and drown.

The quiet is occasionally interrupted by the soft whoosh of water being stirred in the tub. He doesn’t think about her nakedness. It doesn’t even occur to him that she’s naked. That is, until he hears the bathroom door click open and sees her head poking out of it. 

“Fitz?” she wipes at a drop of water about to fall from her chin. He notices her bare shoulders just cut off by the door frame, glistening from the beads of water still sitting on top of them. Her hair has been thrown up into a messy bun on the top of her head, and there are tiny strands on the back of her neck that have gotten wet while the rest of the bun managed to avoid it. “Could you possibly bring me my robe?” she says, hesitantly. She brings one of her arms up to cover more of herself, though he can’t see any of her anyway. She must have noticed his sudden change in color, because she squirms and looks away from him. He’s almost certain he sees her smirk, but ignores the suspicion. 

He looks down at the robe wrinkled in a ball on the bed beside him, and then looks back at her. He struggles to smile at her as though he’s completely confident and comfortable with everything happening. “Mhm” he says, displaying his nerves in a series of nods. He reaches beside him and grabs the robe, throwing his phone on the bed and jumping to his feet. He flutters to her, and she ducks further behind the door, reaching out an arm to grab the robe. The small wet strands of her hair drip onto the floor, just barely missing her shoulder. His eyes follow each drop as he tries to avoid fixating on her damp skin. When she takes the robe from him she instantly hides herself completely and disappears into the bathroom. 

“Thank you.” she says. She shuffles around in the bathroom for a moment or so, and then walks out. She finishes knotting the tie around her waist, and goes to pick up her tea cup on the bedside table, then lifts it to her mouth and takes a sip.

“So?” Fitz raises an eyebrow at her. “Did it work?” he asks. 

She tries to respond before finishing her sip of tea, and nearly drops it from her mouth. Her hand goes to catch it, but fortunately nothing spills. “Oh yes! I feel splendid, actually.”

Fitz rolls back his shoulders. “Good. I’m glad.” 

“And I’ll certainly be needing to buy more oatmeal packets.” She smiles at him, scrunching up her nose again. “Thank you, Fitz.” 

“No problem, just… Helping a friend.” He reaches behind him. “Agh.”

Jemma pauses, and stares down at his hand, which is now quite violently scratching at a spot on his back. He untucks his shirt, so he can have better access to it. Jemma now looks at him with concern. 

“Fitz?” she says, keeping watch on his scratching hand. He looks at her. 

“Hmm?” he says, still scratching. His tongue digs into his bottom lip. 

“Fitz, let me see your back.” She steps slightly toward him, and reaches her hands out. 

“What, why?” He’s still scratching at the spot, and finally Jemma loses her patience and swats his hand away.

“Just let me--” she cuts herself off, turning him around by his shoulders. She reaches down and lifts his shirt to see the spot. Sure enough, there’s a trail of tiny blisters forming just next to his spine at the small of his back. “I was worried about that.” she says under her breath. 

“About what?” Fitz looks at her over his shoulder. 

“I asked you to stay away, but of course you wouldn’t listen.” She steps away from him and folds her arms over her chest. “So congratulations, Fitz. You’ve got shingles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update. I got a little bit of writers block, on top of distractions which prohibited me from writing more. This turned out quite differently than I had expected it to, but it's at least heading in the direction I'd originally dreamt up, so I'll update as soon as I can get the final chapter written, and you'll see what I had buzzing in my head. Hopefully it will be the hilarious scene I'd planned and not a boring mess. I'd appreciate your feedback, as I am not as confident in this fic as I have been with others.


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